


Aftermath II

by elem (elem44)



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 00:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10843092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elem44/pseuds/elem
Summary: A companion piece to 'Aftermath'. This one from Kathryn's POV. An episode addition to ' Friendship One'.It probably helps to read 'Aftermath' first but it's not essential.Inspired by prompt 10. –   “I’m fine.”“You’re always fine. Just - for once give me a real answer!”





	Aftermath II

I let him leave. I shouldn’t have, but I am too caught up in my own anger and self-reproach to deal with his feelings.

I couldn’t even bring myself to watch him go.

I’ve failed him. It is yet another of my inadequacies to add to the list.

Joe Carey’s death has killed something in both of us – it’s plain to see. What we do about it, I haven’t a clue.

We'd sat here at Carey’s desk, speaking in circles - trading meaningless platitudes and skirting around the issues – it’s all we ever seem to do these days.  Wrapped tightly in my cloak of calm, captainly detachment – never show weakness, never falter – I selfishly kept Chakotay at a ‘safe’ distance. But, oh, I so badly wanted him to stay; his presence, as always, a balm to my soul. The yearning is powerful and I have to stop myself from calling to him and pleading with him to come back.  

Instead, I keep my eyes averted and let him walk out the door - a part of me going with him.

I wonder if he knows.  

I don’t want to be alone, but I am so gutted by grief and guilt that I cannot summon the emotional resilience to ask him to stay.     

It took the best part of an hour before Chakotay joined me in Joe’s quarters. Sixty minutes was too much time for self-reflection and recrimination – I was wound as tight as a harp string by the time he found me. I’d come here to think, to analyse, to try and conjure up a plausible excuse for the day’s catastrophe. But there is no excuse, plausible or otherwise. I’d made a strategic error in judgement, and another precious life has been lost. The mere thought of it is like a kick to the solar plexus – my breath catches and my throat aches from too many unshed tears.

The agony of this loss is something that we should be able to discuss but we can’t seem to find the words.        

The gulf between friendship and command is a difficult one to bridge and when one throws the complex emotions of unrequited love and longing into the mix, it becomes a minefield of misread signals and unrealised need.

I have never been good at this sort of thing.

He’d come here to talk – to offer comfort and reassurance and I should have spoken from my heart instead of blathering on about existential nonsense that was no consolation to either of us. Except for a few brief glances in his direction, I could barely meet his gaze; I was terrified that if I did, the stoic facade I’d erected would crack, and I'd either cry, or worse, throw myself into his arms and beg him to never let me go.

God, how I wish I could.

He'd used the pretext of reporting the probe's latest telemetry as his reason for tracking me down, but I knew why he was here. He was worried about me and also drowning in his own mire of guilt and regret. He felt responsible for Joe Carey’s death.

He wasn't, of course.

I was.

I'm the captain, and the buck stops with me. But I wish that we didn't have to play this game. But even thinking that does us all an injustice. This has never been a game. Loss of life, of any life, is a travesty, however inevitable it is in our situation. If only we could turn to each other for comfort, hold each other and share our grief instead of biting back tender words of support, jamming all the hurt down inside us, bottling it up until it festers and eats away at what's left of our humanity.

It's going to kill us in the end - this soul-consuming anguish and unrelenting stress. It won't be a stray phaser blast, planetary disaster or evil alien bent on our destruction that will cause our demise, but this merciless pressure of living everyday with the threat of annihilation hanging over us as we lurch from one near disaster to next. It’s already devouring us a piece at a time.

The fear of failure creates its own inertia and, although Voyager is slowly but inexorably moving forward, both Chakotay and I are wedged in place, immovable, stagnant and slowly petrifying.

It terrifies me. I live in fear of the very real likelihood that if we ever get Voyager home, precious little of either of us will be left to relish our triumph or move on to a new life. 

Today is a case in point - our first legitimate mission for Starfleet in almost seven years. It should have been cause for celebration, a validation of our years of struggle and unwavering service to an institution still half a lifetime away. We were back in the fold and it meant so much to me to know that we could contribute and prove our worth to Starfleet. But as so often happens out here, an unforeseen circumstance reared its grisly head and disaster ensued.

Joe Carey is dead. Kind, decent Joe is gone, and there is nothing I can do to get him back.

The responsibility for his death lies entirely at my feet. I should have realised that Verin was insane and dangerously unstable. I'd arrogantly thought that I could 'handle' him, cajole him, and in some manipulative way appeal to his better nature.

Foolish arrogance on my part and it’s not the first time I’ve been victim to its vanity.  

And how can I blame the man? His planet and people had been decimated by technology our predecessors had haphazardly tossed out into the ether back before we considered the consequences of such actions. There are no excuses or words that can even begin to appease the Uxali’s righteous anger. Years of destruction, the slow but inescapable disintegration of their civilisation, and the planet’s population poisoned and mutilated by a technology they didn’t understand. There is no defence for our ancestors’ actions. The Prime Directive was established for good reason.

But how were we to know?

Our scans of the planet had been straightforward; the readings unremarkable and I’d thrown caution to the wind in my slavish desire to accomplish my mission. _My mission_ – the arrogance of that moniker tells its own story. It’s a lesson I should have learned long ago – nothing is ever straightforward out here. I should have taken more care and not simply assumed.

My overconfidence was my downfall and the catalyst that brought about Joe Carey’s demise.

I wonder sometimes if Chakotay knows just how insecure I feel at times like these, how heavily the responsibility weighs on me - I'm slowly crumbling under the pressure but I can't succumb. I have no choice but to endure. This entire nightmare is of my making and thus the consequences are mine, and mine alone.

If I hadn't made the decision to save the Ocampans and strand us in the Delta Quadrant, we would have been home seven years ago and our losses would have been minimal.  I’m fully aware that the Maquis would have been incarcerated and we would have forfeited the opportunity to explore this fascinating but ultimately perilous quadrant, but at least everyone would be safe, not constantly living on the brink of annihilation.

It’s an existence that wears one to the quick.

This is why I can't ask for Chakotay’s help, why I can't risk dragging him into my morass of self-reproach and guilt. I refuse to take him down with me but I fear he is with me anyway and slowly withering under the pressure of my remoteness and detachment.

We both are.

That sort of loss of control is an anathema to me. Starfleet rules and regulations are the foundation of my strength, the framework of my purpose and to relinquish those strictures would reduce me to rubble.

Something begins to burn in my chest, somewhere behind my sternum, and I have the awful feeling that it is the visceral manifestation of my self-delusion – the realisation that these are all lies, and weak ones at that; petty justifications as to why I persist in doing this alone. My solitariness has been my fortress. My refusal to bend, my anchor. But the walls are brittle; the mortar, a flimsy web of self-delusion, and the anchor so weighty that it’s pulling me under. In my heart of hearts I know that I have to do something about this.

No one can survive alone – certainly not me. I thought I could. I thought I was indestructible but each loss, each near miss, and those moments when hope had been raised and then dashed, have whittled away at my resolve and I fear that collapse is imminent.

I can barely remember the woman I was before this ordeal. She seems so distant, so alarmingly naive and so removed from the aloof, hard-edged woman I’ve become. If I could go back and warn her, tell her what lies ahead, would I? Would that brash, over-confident Kathryn Janeway have listened?

I doubt it.  

It is a humbling thought to know that no matter how self-assured and knowledgeable one thinks one is, life has lessons for us all – many of them heart-wrenching and harrowing – but it is up to each individual to learn or perish.

Today I’ve been dealt a harsh reminder of all that I _do not_ know and that burn in my middle is ignited by the shame I feel for having forgotten the innate fallibility of my humanity.

I wish I could tell Chakotay all of this, but we skirt around any meaningful words – platitudes and meaningless banter have become our mode of communication. I think we’re both scared – terrified of what the other is feeling and thinking, and our all-encompassing need for one another.

I wish it could be different.

It’s crazy and such a waste. Madness on a grand scale. We only have each other, but we’ve so successfully barricaded ourselves behind walls of predictability that we’ve forgotten how to share our feelings - how to be honest with one another. I miss it, I miss him and, oh God, I miss us and what we used to be.

Instead of sharing my grief and consoling him in his, I doled out trite inanities in an attempt to protect us both, but all I’ve done is wound him, and, in turn, myself. If I’d turned on him and struck him, I couldn’t have done more damage than what I did by withdrawing and leaving us blindly floundering for solid ground. I’d hoped my words would alleviate some of his grief over Joe's loss, but what is the point? How does one blunt the jagged edges of grief with mere words? A man’s life has been lost. A man universally liked; a husband and father, a man who, although humble and unassuming, encapsulated the essence of what we cherish in our humanity.

There is no way to inure one’s heart to that loss or to justify it to his family.

I dread the inevitable conversation I will have with his wife and sons. The grief that I will catapult into their well-ordered lives – it will be shattering. There are no words of comfort I can impart, no validation or rationalisation I can offer that will soften the blow. But I’ll do it, nonetheless. It is my responsibility; the consequences of which are mine to endure.    

It claws at my insides, though – _that_ I can admit. Every time I have to break the sad news of a life lost to a family or loved one, a small piece of me dies inside. The joy of being in regular contact with Starfleet has had its bitter side as well. As so often happens, those silver linings that we prize so highly are inevitably shrouded in dark clouds of despair.

In the weeks after we’d established regular contact with Starfleet, I'd spoken to all the families of our lost comrades – spouting the predictable words of condolence and commiseration, trying to personalise the messages as much as I was able without digging so deep into myself that I was left a scoured and hollow wreck. It left me bereft but it was my duty and I would do it again without question.   

It is eating a hole in my heart though, and I can feel myself faltering. I know Chakotay can see it; he can probably feel it too. I see the worry in his eyes, his almost tortured restraint. Today he’d asked me the ubiquitous question of whether I was all right.

I answered without thinking, touting my usual rejoinder. _‘I’m fine.’_

I could feel his frustration and his anger – it rolled off him in waves, and who could blame him. Evasiveness is a poor substitute for the truth.

I hated myself for doing it to him – for pushing him away so callously.

I’m still holding that tiny nacelle from Joe’s model Voyager and I curl my hand around it until it bites into my palm so hard that it almost draws blood. I breathe deeply and hold onto that pain.

We are not going to survive, not whole or sane if we don’t do something to bring balance to this life of unrelieved stress and the onerous burdens of command.

I love Chakotay. I have for years. I can’t remember a time since our meeting when I didn’t. I guard my heart jealously and don’t give it away easily. I’ve loved twice before, and lost both men and I’m not willing to take that risk with Chakotay but I think I’m losing him anyway.

There’s a fragility about him now – about both of us – and I can see him wavering. Not in his devotion to the crew, or in his duty to me, but in his confidence and self-assurance, and I fear for him. Something was different about him today – there was a vulnerability that I haven’t noticed before and it has shaken my foundations to the core. I have come to rely on his steadiness and air of gentle stoicism to keep me on an even keel and I feel disorientated to know that he’s faltered.

We all have our breaking points and I’m afraid that we are reaching ours. I’d always assumed – there I go again – that we were indestructible, but it is very apparent that we are not. Not as we are. We both need something to hold onto and perhaps it is as simple as holding onto each other that will give us the strength to go on.

The thought of losing him is a nightmare that haunts me but there are many ways to lose someone. Death is just one of the dreaded options, and, as awful as that would be, to witness him losing himself, is almost worse.

I turn towards the door – the silence in Carey’s quarters is becoming more and more oppressive. Chakotay hasn’t returned – I thought he might – but I gave him no reason to. In fact, I made it nigh impossible. My cold dismissal and unwillingness to discuss the day’s events left him no other option but to retreat. Regret bites deep and my heart aches anew for the distress I’ve caused him.

That tiny nacelle is still gripped in my hand and with a concerted effort, I unfurl my fingers and place it on the table next to Joe’s Voyager. That small but perfect replica; so fragile and defenceless. I stare at it and it occurs to me that it is more than a simple facsimile. It is a telling representation of our frailty and isolation. Voyager itself is but a mere dot within the vastness of space – small, insignificant and exposed – vulnerable. But it’s so much more than that. The people within these insubstantial bulkheads, their lives, their loves and their needs are foremost in my thoughts, and at present, there is one individual whose needs outweigh all others.

Chakotay.

A sudden sense of urgency envelopes me. I need to go to him. A heavy weight of foreboding is pressing against my heart, a feeling of dread pushing hard against my lungs making it difficult to breathe.

I shove back my chair, my legs bumping the desk and almost knocking over Joe’s ship in a bottle. I steady it with one hand while I tap my combadge with the other.  “Computer, state Commander Chakotay’s location?”

_“Commander Chakotay is in his quarters.”_

I’m in the corridor and striding towards the turbolift before the computer has finished answering.

The lift takes an age to arrive and then an equal age to open on Deck Three. Time has become my enemy – I can’t get to him quickly enough.

At his door, I ring the chime. There’s no answer and I ring again.

Still nothing.

Fear is snapping at my heels and my heart is hammering in my chest. I should have realised and come sooner. I’ve been so immersed in my own quagmire of self-pity that I failed to recognise the same anguish in him. I should have known how Carey’s death would affect him. My mistakes, like relentless waves hitting a rugged shore, are flowing one on top of the other and I can’t seem to stem the tide.

For a brief moment, I’m unsure what to do but I remember a time years ago when I’d isolated myself in my quarters, overwhelmed by sadness and despair. He didn’t hesitate to breach the walls of my self-imposed isolation and force me to confront my insecurities and fractured state of mind.

It’s my turn to return the favour.

I tap in the override and step into his dimly lit quarters.

For a split second I can’t see him and then his silhouette emerges from the gloom. He’s sitting, stock still but unnaturally rigid in a chair by the viewport.

I whisper his name. “Chakotay?”

He neither moves nor acknowledges my presence.

Hesitantly, I move closer and it’s then that I see his face. His familiar features, lit silver by the light of the reflected stars are frozen in a rictus of anguished pain, his hands fiercely gripping the arm rests, his whole body taut to the point of trembling.

I’ve never seen him like this and I’m stricken.

I frantically call his name again, but he still he appears unaware of my presence. I hesitate – restraint is so ingrained I have to fight against it – but on shaky legs, I go to him.

He’s unresponsive and my hand hovers over my combadge ready to contact Sickbay but this isn’t something that the Doctor can fix. Chances are, I can’t fix it either, but I’m determined to try.

I let instincts rule my actions and I reach for him. My hands cup his cheeks and I whisper his name over and over. There is a faint flicker of response so I persist. Kneeling beside him, I chafe his hands and stroke his face, his arms, his chest, and all the time I whisper shushing words of comfort; asking him and silently willing him to come back to me.

Does he know that I can’t do this without him?

A frown slowly crumples his brow and a small starburst of hope surges within me. I lean closer, my head next to his as I run my fingers through his hair and coax him towards awareness. A rush of relief washes over me as he opens his eyes and they meet mine. Recognition is there but his eyes widen in terror and I rest my cheek against his and continue talking to him. I don’t know what he sees that frightens him, but, a moment later, he reaches for me and hauls me onto his lap, his arms, as strong as steel bands, clasp me convulsively to his chest.

I should resist but that would be futile. This is assimilation of the very best kind.

Borg inspired metaphors? My thoughts are all over the place. I’m giddy with relief.

Breathing in his familiar scent, I press myself closer – my head tucked against his shoulder, my face nestled into the crook of his neck. He is still tense, his muscles shivering beneath his skin, but I can feel the rigidity easing at my touch, just enough that I can slide my arms from his grasp, and wrap them around his shoulders to hug him closer.

At last, he whispers my name. “Kathryn.” It comes on a shuddering exhalation.

A prayer almost and I want to cry with relief.

I hum a response, too moved to utter a word. Tears burn behind my eyes. I have let us descend into this state of near collapse before allowing the barriers to fall. It should never have happened. The rigours of command restraint seem absurd on reflection. To know what was at stake and to have risked our very sanity on the whims of archaic tenets that never really applied to our situation in the first place. It as been foolishness beyond belief and it all seems ridiculous in the extreme. I silently curse my misguided loyalty.

This is what is important – he should have always been my priority.

We stay wrapped in an embrace for countless minutes, breathing together in a gentle rhythm, our hearts beating as one. Reality slowly reasserts itself as I continue stroking his face, his neck, his shoulders – it seems to calm him.

He takes a deep breath and I can sense that he’s at last fully aware of who I am and where we are. I can sense that he wants to say something but I wish he wouldn’t. What is there to say? A paucity of words has led us to this and to my mind, actions speak so much louder. Besides, I don’t need apologies, explanations or regrets. I want this. Peace, communion and love – because I know that’s what this is. It couldn’t be anything else.

He eases back and looks directly into my eyes. Our gazes hold and I lift my hands and cup his face. He inhales again, it’s almost a gasp, but before he can utter a sound, I press my fingers to his lips.

Shock stills his tongue and I almost smile. But instead, I lean back against his shoulder and whisper, “I know, I know.”

And I do. I know. It is all so clear now. We need this. Comfort and touch. Tenderness and the warmth of another living breathing body – succour for the soul. It feels so right and so damn good to be close to him.

His shoulders relax again and we sit in silence, letting the sense of peace flow through us, healing the invisible wounds of our grief and anguish.

My hands are not idle though – I continue to caress him, to touch him – now that I’ve started I can’t stop.

I move closer still as a warm thrum of arousal stirs in my belly. I should have expected this – the extremes of emotion turning grief into desire, heartbreak into want. But I need this almost more than my next breath and my fingers weave through his hair and tease the skin at the base of his skull. My lips are moving too. Kissing the soft skin along his jaw and pressing over the jumping pulse in his neck.

My body moves against his, all the parts of me that I can manoeuvre, press against the nearest parts of him. We fit like a glove, and I move restlessly, urging his hands to play over limbs and skin.

I am desperate for this and I would hazard a guess that he is too. I can feel the tone of his movements change as he senses the shift in the way I’m touching him – he couldn’t fail to notice. Soothing caresses have turned into the firmer strokes meant to tease and arouse.

His mouth presses against the top of my head, lips lingering as he kisses my hair and his hands begin to sweep over my back, long kneading strokes that end at my hips and he tugs me closer.

He’s aroused; the hard ridge of him presses into my hip. My heart thuds in my chest, its pulse a throbbing echo between my legs; heat and want curl deep in my belly. God, I want him with a need that is thick, tight and unrelenting.

Pulling me closer, his mouth searches for mine – skimming over my eyelids and cheeks until his lips find me and we kiss, open mouthed; a deep dredging kiss that draws a moan from my throat and an answering grunt from him.

The sound strikes at something deep and primal within me and I haul a deep shuddering breath into my overtaxed lungs.

I’m too far away from him. I’d crawl inside him, if I could, my aching need to be near him, so intense that I can barely think straight.

Clambering in an ungainly tangle of limbs, I straddle his lap and press myself against him – liquid heat against hot, hard need. I shiver and sigh.  

I grasp at any part of him I can find. My movements are becoming frantic, my famed control is history – thank, God!

My hands roam over his body, tugging at his jacket, the fingers of one snaking their way under his clothing to the warmth of his skin, the other scrapes over his scalp, nails pressing into the taut muscles of his shoulders and the sensitive skin at the back of his neck.          

We’re gasping for breath; shuddering exhalations follow rasping inhalations and I’m in the throes of the exquisite pain/pleasure of spiralling arousal. I haven’t felt like this in years.

Rocking against him, I grind myself along the hot hard length of him; the thrusts almost brutal, savage, primal - delicious. I’m lost in the piercing joy of it as he counters my movements with jarring thrusts of his own.

I’m writhing and squirming in my desperation, rising higher and higher, craving fulfilment but never wanting this to end. So close, so close and I squeeze my eyes shut but he drags my head towards his, cupping the base of my skull and pressing his forehead against mine.

Mouths open, we gasp in ragged starts, sharing breath and life and then he demolishes any remaining vestiges of my control, breathing the words, “I love you. I love you. I love you.” into my open mouth.

I swallow them greedily. Sucking them into the very heart of me. I want to cry, to howl at the universe but he takes my mouth again in a ravaging kiss, crushing my lips to his, sweeping his tongue over mine and driving me to heights I never dreamed possible.

Our love-making might lack finesse – hell, we’re still fully clothed - but it is heady and real, fuelled by need and soul-deep love – I know this without a doubt.

His hands clasp me to him – strong but sure and I meet his thrusts with those of my own, hips undulating in jagged heaves.

My orgasm hits me with the subtlety of a freight train. I cry out, my spine arching as my entire body is caught in jagged throes of bliss. Bright white sparks behind my eyelids, my whole body shudders, my belly rigid and my thighs taut, my inner muscles clenching convulsively.

I hear his groan and he presses his face between my breasts as his hips thrust upward and the warmth of his come seeps through the layers of clothing between us.

We’re both gasping for breath and it takes several minutes before we calm. I rest against him. His arms drape loosely around me, his thumb caressing my jaw, his fingers playing in the damp tendrils of my hair.

If only we could stay here like this. Just the two of us, in our own small world – safe from harm and the scouring sadness of loss. I know we can’t but we can come back here – we’ve found our way to this place and it is ours for the future.

My hands stroke over his chest, then I lift my fingers to caress his cheek. I can feel some of the rigidity return to his shoulders and I sense he is waiting for my reaction. Will I regret what just happened? Call an end to something that has been almost seven years in the making and only just begun?

I smile against his neck, my lips plucking gently at the skin there. I take a deep breath and whisper, “I love you. I love you, too.”

I feel his whole body relax, a loaded exhale leaves his body and I nestle deeper into his embrace.

We will talk. But later. We have all the time in the world, and as we’ve so recently proven, words are not always necessary to get one’s meaning across.

I’m determined though, to make this work – to share not only my joys but also my burdens. We have half a lifetime yet to travel and there will be more losses along the way, but we’ve salvaged something vital this day, something precious and unique.

Us.

Love is never wrong. It is the one thing that never diminishes when given away. It strengthens and endures and I hold mine now, tightly in my arms, and feel whole for the first time in years. 

I rest against him and close my eyes. Tomorrow will inevitably come but until then, I’ll savour this moment in time. For always.

 

fin

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 


End file.
